Phantasie Bereich: The Tale of Damascus
This is an original story by Gozon. It takes place in the imagination zone of Adolf Hitler, where he escaped to right after he lost. This is the story of a boy born in the time paradox and his journies to save the world from the very person who created it. Michael Jackson Saga Peace Destroyed It was a time of great peace in the world, a time that could only foreshadow great things. The year was 1959, and it was finally time for the coronation of the heir to the throne of England, taking the place of the great King Edward. The heir was prince Damascus Jones, a sixteen year old boy who grew up in royalty for the first ten years of his life and decided to travel the world for the next six. Today was his glorious return after he had heard his father had become gravely ill. Now, becoming a man, Damascus would be crowned King of England. "Citizens of England, hail and welcome back the heir to the throne of Great Britain, Prince Damascus!" chanted the royal guards, rolling out the red carpet in honor for the prince. The citizens cheered inside the palace grounds, a raving sea of red and white expanding in every general direction, covering the entire palace grounds. The trumpeters and buglers blared loud over the crowd as Damascus stepped forth. They all expected to see a fine young man dressed royally in the most elegant of gowns. They were all surprised, even the groggy King Edward and Queen Lady Gaga, when their son appeared in a simple green blazer, pair of jeans, and plain black shoes. His hair, which had been combed down and gelled into a bowl cut the last time they had seen him, was now unruly and spiked up in every direction. "Oh, erm, my lord, is that you?" asked the head royal guard to the oddly dressed prince. "Of course it is, Baxter. You haven't changed a bit," said Damascus with a grin. "I'm sorry, you look like, well, like a peasant," said Baxter. "Well, the whole outside world isn't one big castle," replied Damascus. "Oh. Right, sir," said Baxter. "Finally, after six years, the great Prince Damascus has returned to take the throne of England so his father, King Edward, may retire!" chanted Baxter. The crowd, overcoming their initial shock, cheered loudly. "The official coronation shall begin tonight at eleven thirty o'clock! Please, join us then to start the reign of soon-to-be King Damascus." The crowd then dispersed slowly out the large doors of the palace walls. Damascus retired from the balcony to his old room to prepare for his big night, the night he had been dreaming of for many years. Just as he was about to take a short nap, he felt a disturbance of energy. Out of nowhere, all the chi, or life energies, of the citizens who had left the palace walls vanished. Then, even more energies vanished, and an explosion ricocheted throughout the palace halls. "Wh-What was that?! What happened?!" exclaimed Damascus. He heard screaming and demolition all around his room and in the halls. Then, he sensed another energy that was located right above the palace. It startled him, as he hadn't felt that particular energy for three years, when he visited Brooklyn in the United States to see his long-lost banished brother in his black community, Michael Jackson. "Michael?! What's he doing here?!" exclaimed Damascus. He dashed out of his burning room at speeds that would be considered super human. In seconds, he had escaped the collapsing palace only to see another Hell. The palace garden was in flames, with craters littered everywhere. He expected to hear screaming, but there was none. He wondered why this was for a few seconds, but then he realized the answer. Everyone was dead. Damascus was the last one left. He looked high in the sky to where he sensed his brother. Sure enough, floating high above the ground, was a figure, most likely Michael. "M-Michael! Is that you?!" shouted Damascus. The figure slowly descended until he was face to face with Damascus. "Hello, Damascus," the figure said. Though he hadn't heard his brother's voice in three years, it was unmistakable. The only thing that he didn't understand was his brother's appearance. Michael, when he had last seen him, had a dark complexion with black skin, a gift from his patron, Darius Marquavius, the god of African Americans. His hair was stuck up in an afro and he wore common street clothes. This guy, though he had the same voice and energy signature, was definitely not his older brother. He had deathly pale skin, whiter than Damascus's. His hair had a similar texture, yet it was much longer and unruly, going down his back in loose curls. His clothes were mainly black with silver jewelry here and there. "You! You're not Michael! Who are you?!" asked Damascus. "What's the matter, little princeling? Can you not recognize your own brother?" asked the figure. "You are not my brother! My brother is black!" exclaimed Damascus. "All things are temporary, my dear brother, even skin tone. I accepted this form along with great powers so I can serve my true purpose and obtain my long-overdue revenge," said the figure. "That's impossible! Michael would never hurt anyone, unless provoked! He definitely wouldn't destroy a whole palace of innocent people for no good reason!" shouted Damascus. "Innocent?! You believe our mother and father are innocent?! ''Have you forgotten they wished this, this curse upon me, and then banished me to America for it?! They are definitely not innocent!" shouted Michael Jackson. "Still, you had no right to kill them, or anyone! You just murdered millions of people!" shouted Damascus. "Aw, poor prince. Sad you won't be coronated now? Too bad," said Michael. "I don't know what's become of you, but there is no excuse for what you've done! I'll never forgive you!" shouted Damscus. "Ouch, that hurts. I was planning on letting you join me in my quest to build a perfect world, free of injustices and racial differences," said Michael. "If by free of racial differences you mean killing all others, then forget it!" shouted Damascus. "Please, listen brother. I can't do this without you," mocked Michael. "If, If that's how you are, then I have no brother," Damascus said. His head was down and his temper was flared. It was terrible, but it was the inevitable. He knew he'd have to fight his older brother. "Fine, be that way. Turn to dust like Mommy and Daddy!" shouted Michael. He lept back into the air and hovered, a technique called ''bukujutsu that involved the usage of chakra, or energy pools. Chakra, unlike chi, or life energy, can be used at almost any time with an infinite supply, yet are considerably weaker than chi based skills. "Let's see if you can handle this! Just beat it!" shouted Michael. He extended both his arms and held them above his head as if he was carrying the world. Suddenly, he began gathering chi energy in his hands, a dangerous amount, as using your own life energy to attack shortens your own life span at a considerable amount. "A-Are you crazy?! You'll destroy us all!" shouted Damascus. "That's a risk we'll just have to take, now, isn't it?!" said Michael. The chi energy had formed a perfect black sphere about twice the size as a bowling ball. The chi energy was compacted, so there was no telling to how much damage an attack of that calibur could do. He stretched his arms out in front of him so that the energy sphere would follow. Then, he launched it. The energy sphere flew at supersonic speeds, curving in wave patterns so it looked like one large blur. Damascus hardly had anytime to react. He covered his head and chest with his crossed arms as to block the attack, yet it bursted with an explosion turning all the rubble to sand and dust, turning the once great palace of Great Britain into a desert. Damascus was no where to be seen. "Ha! You've been hit by a smooth criminal!" exclaimed Michael with a psychotic laugh. "More like a cray criminal!" challenged a deep, baritone voice from behind Michael. "Y-You! What are you doing here?!" exclaimed Michael. A Battle to Rival Emancipation Standing before Michael was his former best friend, a man who was the only reason that he managed to make it in Brooklyn. Before him was R'Zaveon Jamiere Freeman, the most well known and stereotypical of all dem black folks down in Brooklyn. R'Zaveon was tall and pudgy, like a jumbo sized teddy bear you could win at a carnival, but not so much cuddly. His skin was a deep shade of cocoa brown. His hair was in a spiky afro and stuck out about a foot from his head. He had bushy eyebrows and large bug-eyes. He had a large, round nose that was very oily. His lips were bright red and circular. He wore a gold ghetto jacket and about a million chains and rings. He wore blue jeans and Converse High Tops. "I was 'bout to ask y'allz the same thing! Whaddya doin' herez, niggah?" asked R'Zaveon. "That's, That's none of your business!" said Michael. "Now I know ya hated ya folks, but I'm not gonna stand for no killing of people widout no good reason. Just whatz you gone do dat for, and whatz you done with ya skin? I hope ya not tryin' t' pose as no wiggah boy, ain't ya?" asked R'Aveon. "R'Zaveon, out of respect for our former friendship, I kindly ask you to leave," Michael commanded. "Oh, so ya value ya friends more 'an ya family? Yeah, I saw whatcha did t' Damascus. How dare you! You can't get away with such crimes, the fuzz will hunt ya down! The man knows all!" shoutted R'Zaveon. "Don't worry about Damascus. He's alive, just barely, though. Now, you insolent Negro, begone or I shall kill you, too," Michael commanded again. "I ain't goin' no where! Imma teach y'all a nice lesson on black pride!" said R'Zaveon, removing his jacket and all his chains but one. Underneath he wore an off white stained wife beater that didn't cover his massive beer belly. "Fine. For fools like you there is only death!" said Michael. He propelled himself forwards with his bukujutsu and threw a punch, catching R'Zaveon in the face. He continued with a kick to the stomach and an elbow to the jaw, sending R'Zaveon flying backwards. "Okay, ya wanna play like dat? Two can play at this game," said R'Zaveon, wiping the blood off his face. He inhaled deeply and concentrated. His beer belly was sucked in and became a rock-hard eight pack. His arm, chest, and leg muscles also grew exponentially, until he was a giant cocoa bean of veins and muscles. "So, you're already going to use your steroeidón ''technique? Please, you can't beat me," taunted Michael. "I'll show you!" shoutedd R'Zaveon. He used his own ''bukujutsu and propelled himself at Michael. Michael put his guard up to counter the oncoming attack, but R'Zaveon swerved above Michael and kicked him into the rubble. Michael flew back up and countered by elbowing R'Zaveon in the face. The two continued to pummel each other until both of them were tired, sweaty, and covered in each other's blood. "You think you're keeping up with me, don't you, R'Zaveon?" panted Michael. "I, I know I'm keepin' wit' ya," panted R'Zaveon. "Really? You've been fighting at your full strength and I've been keeping some at reserve," said Michael. "So be it, then, but I'll still win in da long run," said R'Zaveon. "And how do you suppose you'll do that?" asked Michael. "Ya know how we've got each otha's blood on us? You just con-mother-fucking-tracted AIDs, niggah!" said R'Zaveon. "What? AIDs? Why you insolent little..." started Michael, only to be interrupted by the sound of his brother's signature chakra based attack. "Chréosi Anaskolopismós!" shouted a weary Damscus, covered in blood and scrapes from Michael's Beat It Blaster. From his bloody palms appeared a flash of golden light and electricity and formed an attacked that launched a rallying wave of sonic booms and energy at Michael. It formed a colossal tornado swirl and trapped Michael in the raging vortex of pain. The swirl formed a sphere around Michael and suddenly, all the energy formed into spear-like points, puncturing through Michael. Thriller Saga Satan, Jr. Saga Coronation Saga Okrin Saga Hitler Saga Campaign Saga Category:Gozon Category:Humor Category:Story